I really like your face(s)

Yearning is one of my favourite words in the English language.

yearn·ing   [yur-ning]
–noun
1. deep longing, esp. when accompanied by tenderness or sadness: a widower's yearning for his wife.
2. an instance of such longing



[thoughts around midnight, kite]
Lola

Paranoia in B-Flat Major

Quote me.
There are forces of nature at work.
Changes on the horizon. The boat set to sea, is trapped in the eye of the storm BUT the red-headed weatherman says clear skies are coming. And COMING... until we reach some point of satisfaction. Of fulfillment for the time being*.
The FREAKS of nature will calm. They'll find a way to free their freak.
Not today. And not tomorrow.
But soon.
Quote me.
There are changes on the horizon.

Trust me.
Not just for me. But for us all trapped in the eye of the storm that is twenty-two... twenty-something.

Lola.

Mes Amies

Often I am unable to operate in a thick of noise.

I suddenly see a thought bubble from last night. I'm in the center of a dance floor, a commotion of hot mess and hip hop. And I'm dancing - working that pink feathered boa knowing in my right mind that it's ridiculous; wearing this boa in a public venue such as this fails to collect any sort of kosher attention. But because I'm aware of said faux pas, I'm saved by the irony.
I see myself dancing but I'm also thinking. I'm analyzing my surroundings and how I feel about everyone and who I'm with and how I feel.

In this thick of noise my mind operates. It surges through a sea of realization - truths about identity that I feel strongly for. It's funny, isn't it? That some of my most profound actualizations spawn during moments such as this. Clouds of thought floating over chaotic, bawdiful waves of mindless vertical fucking and looping auto-tune.

In this moment I saw myself having fun with my friend with barely any alcohol, zero attraction to any member of either sex, nor the satisfaction of onlookers sending invitations of dishonorable intentions with their eyes. I was having fun because of the friendship. The laughing. The ass-shaking. The sexless debauchery of the feather boa.
And in the thick of it I remembered how fruitful "carefree" can prove to be. The opinions of those potential onlookers do not matter in any way - as much as we think they do. I do not need to waste my time improving myself for others. I must return to improving myself for me. I recall phases where my love for myself was inherent - sent like a chemical signal others picked up upon. I can't fight to get that back, but I can earn it.
And there it is, self-love is fun-love. Self-love is real-love.
How easy it all becomes when you return your focus to yourself.
How easy it is to breathe and to be, when loving yourself returns to the front-lines. And I mean front-lines, because all battles are for freedom.

In time, suddenly, you're free.
And once you're free (again) everything you always longed for - the stuff you ailed for - will simply come to you. And when it comes, it'll come as what the french call a "Tour de force."


Private Lo

If he isn't good enough for me, how can he be good enough for you?

This just happens to be my rambling morning musing as I sip my cup of joe (black) and nibble on my brioche (blueberry).
I do recall singing his praises; it's because he's a "nice" guy with a touch of edge in his style.. not so much the flake you'd consider those creative types, and once upon a time he was prolific when the man wasn't strapped to his back and working his knuckles to the bone.

Excuses. Excuses. When you've got someone in your grasp as good as you... you take your lady out... To a nice dinner, at a reasonable hour. It doesn't have to be every week... but do not say the words, "I love you, I'm so afraid to lose you, you are my girlfriend" if you do not want to share your time, if you just wish to "squeeze" her in.

I'm starting to wonder whether you're truly happy? I know you wouldn't want to be back in high school, so why are you running to class at the ring of the bell?
I'm starting to wonder... when he says "I miss you..." is he really saying "I miss the warm inviting crevice that is your va-jay-jay" ?

These are my thoughts and I likely have no right to have an opinion on the matter. However they are thoughts of concern. They are thoughts in the best interest.
And I'm starting to wonder, "are these thoughts your thoughts too?"

xoLola
goes Beatnik.

Post-Secret Wednesday

I rather have love than make more money.
And I rather have my work than ever find love at all.
But if I can swing it, I want it all and then some.

This is what your voice feels like

I'm peeling the rind. I'm doing it fast - I just hate to waste a minute... a moment.
And there it goes, the blade of a steak knife sears right from the flesh of the fruit to the pink of my thumb and it's beading up now, pearls of lovely heartbeat red. The citrus stings the wound, the blood salty as I kiss my own hand clean. But it looks like your hand. Dry and cracked and desperate for intensive care.

And I take a second to regroup. Regardless how deep, these nicks and scrapes can take my wind. I stop flying. I start falling.
My hands are your hands. My hands are cut all over.

I listen to November Blue on repeat and I cry because it feels so unbelievably good to cry and to feel and to hear your voice. Things you said yesterday ten years ago.

I close my eyes and I feel the skin of your hand. The way my head felt against your chest.

And everything that happens for me is because of you. I swear it.

Fuck my nose won't stop running.

What's that prayer you used to say? I wish I knew the words.
Remember those books we used to read before bed? Mercer Mayer.

~Lo

Terracotta Army

The literal translation of "terra" - "cotta" is baked earth in Italian. I had a dream last night where my sister, father and I were outside a suburban home standing at the side of the road on our bicycles. It was bright and sunny. We weren't there to see the home, just stopped at that spot for some reason unbeknownst to any of us, and not once revealed in said dream.

The house was more of a luxury to be honest. One of those Spanish California ranch-styles. A "modest" mansion. There were folks on the roof fixing up some tiles. The terracotta kind - the color of rusty reddish Earth.

I looked up at the house and saw that it was actor Scott Patterson wearing a backwards ball cap and a button down, up there doing work on his own crib. Genuinely enjoying the labor.

"Hey, it's you!" I shouted. He looked down at me and smiled as I brought the unlikely encounter to my sister and father's attention. Clearly, without even knowing me, he can see I've got Gilmore Girls written all over my face and being. We chatted briefly. It was lovely - the kind of pleasant you have with a stranger when you're not being polite for the sake of it, but you realize almost immediately you could actually be friends... You relate...

It was at that moment a mail carrier, who I believe was my older brother, or at least knew and/or looked like my brother, delivered the mail. Something was for me... A check? For $40 000?

What? Why?

"It's yours. I thought you knew?" My sister said without a tinge of jealousy or envy... (Yup, this was a dream...)

So I looked at it. It was indeed for me. My first thought was, "I don't need this at all right now. I only support myself." But it was mine. So I held it... I'm still trying to figure out what this gift from my subconscious world could mean?

In any case - the image of that elaborate roof being maintained, taken care of by this rugged, semi-successful man was the image that really stuck with me. This beautifully ornate roof, yet made from ingredients purely of the Earth... That was what was important in this dream. That's what I had my eyes on...

I consulted a dream dictionary. There are signs everywhere after all.

It states, "To see a roof in your dream, symbolizes a barrier between two states of consciousness. It represents a protection of your consciousness, mentality, and beliefs. The dream is an overview of how you see yourself and who you think you are."

It was terracotta. Rooves adorning Hollywood homes, yet originating from homegrown, warm, European hands. Hands are the most beautiful part of the body. They are the hands that build and create and nurse and touch. And when your face and body changes, your hands generally stay the same. Same lines, nicks, same palms...

To the lovely messages from our subconscious world,
-Lola.

I really appreciate the song playing as I write this - muffled through the walls from some adjoined apartment -
It sounds like Coldplay..."The Scientist." And although I'm not a fan of this band, or really know much about them other than the fact the lead singer was a virgin until he was like 26 or 30 or something that "society" deems outrageous, but I deem "normal"... the song is actually quite fitting for my mood... and the composition of this piece.

Antenna

We're standing there, Joe and I, like idiots with a radio. I don't know why he brought a radio but he did. He does stuff like that. Goddamn! It even has an antenna - I just noticed it. If he pulls it up and turns it on I'll freak. I'll freak! I'll freak out so bad he'll have to tie my arms behind my back, gag me with a pillow sheet, and force me to the ground. ...Or a tree.

He pulls the antenna up. I don't snap. I just swallow, turn and stock off before he even gets a chance to touch the dial.

And then I hear it. The shameless voice of a boy scout calling after me. And when his voice cracks I feel even more like lying on the train-tracks, than I already do. He's shouting my name. When he says it it sounds like something classic and perfect like "Sarah!"
"....Sarah!"
And as much as I wish it was, it's not.

I try to block it out but he catches up to me... Touches my shoulder so that I face him, but not in any way threatening. He'd risk it all to rescue a pigeon from a rat trap after all.

I glare at him and roll my eyes. He's looking at me. But not staring. So kind and perfect - and so annoyingly oblivious to that. He's an innocent.

Again he says my name. I hear "Sarah." He need say nothing more, the inflection alone asks, "what's wrong?" "Sarah what's wrong? What can I do Sarah?"

I shake my head.

He nods... starting to get it... probably thinking I want nothing to do with him. Ok. He gets it. He'll accept it. He'll turn and he'll leave and he'll just let me alone.

...

But he doesn't leave. He's stopped looking at me too. Now he's looking at the trees. He doesn't get it. He doesn't get me.

"You think no one gets you," he says. His voice sounding so guilty, as if he just said something inappropriate. I can tell from his face, he's worried.

And then it just fell out of me... "You wanna know what my theory is? About all this? About everything? The secrets of the universe?"
I continue.
"You wanna know what we all do?
...We talk.
We talk.. And, we walk.
We sing and dance.
Kiss and fuck.
Build and break.
No more.
But certainly no less.
Everything else? It's all just variations of the same.
...And as complex as you think this is? THink I am?
It's actually quite simple."

He's looking at me, but not in my eyes. "You think so?"

I nod.

"So now what?"

"Leave."

"No."

It's the first time I've ever heard him say the word.
It's my turn to talk.

"I don't wanna talk," I say.

"Ok. What do you want to do?" He says my name at the end of his question... but this time I try not to hear Sarah... but my real name.

I take a deep breath. "I wanna do what people do when they don't talk."

After a moment we turn and walk, but this time together, leaves crunching under our feet.
He turns on the radio and it plays an annoyingly perfect tune, like it's the end of a scene in a movie. As lame as I know he knows I think that is, I really like the song.
And how clammy his hand is.

***
Lola
- I wrote this on my ipod while walking home from No Frills. Man, so much of my writing is inspired by walks home from No Frills...

he makes me cry

"We can't all be the same," he says. "If we all looked the same this world would be a terrible place."

I say ok. But it comes out in a whisper - a weak one - my voice caught in my throat.

"Don't worry about it. You're fine. Don't be sad. You're fine ok... ...Are you there? Hey?"

...I'm there. "I'm here."

"Ok. You're fine. Eh? We'll talk tomorrow. Good night."

Ok.


***

Lola.
i'm a telephone crier.

Talk of indolence, a conversation story

B: "It's funny," I say to Marie on the balcony, "you're problem is very much like my problem. Wait. No. Scratch that. You nor I have the problems in these situations... THEY have the problems. They're like fungal growth. It gets worse with age, and serves no purpose but to irritate with insidiousness. It's appalling."

M: "Yeah. You're right."

B: "And they don't even know it."

M: "And they choose to ignore it!"

B: "I believe in communication. I've tried it."

M: "Ya, me too. But sometimes I don't even want to talk."

B: "Oh I NEVER want to talk. Sometimes I open up and play nice... but I have to be in an exceptional mood. I'm often in a good mood, but when I avoid conversation it's not that I'm not in a good mood, it's that I don't want to get in a bad mood. It's a preventative measure."

M: "Talk contraception."

B: "Purple prophylactics."

M: "Candy-flavored condoms!"

B: "Bitchin'."

M: "Indeed...(Beat)
...Her laziness annoys me. Like pick up your crap. It's eating the living room. This isn't your personal hole."

B: " 'And like stop showing your fucking mid-drift', is what I should have said to her. Do you know how tacky that is? ...And it's like tooting your own horn... You know how much she toots her own horn? It's like toot, toot, TOOT every second I see her. Just leave me alone. I'm thinking about things. Important things."

M: "Well Megan's the same way. Except she's just in love with her mother. Every two seconds she needs to see what Mommy thinks... It's embarrassing. Em-bare-assing. Like, I'd like to fuck my boyfriend in peace thank you."

B: "Inconvenient."

M: "When I want it... YES!"

B: "....I bet her Mom tucks her in at night too. Lucky cake."

M: "OMG she's SUCH a cake."

B: "I can't stand cakes."

M: "Oh they're cakes. They're having lunch right and the worst part - they brought provolone cheese and mortadella and olives.... Listen. Don't try to be Italian. You will never be Italian, you rude fuckin' Wonder bread eating manga cakes."

B: "Man alive, that's hilarious. Sounds like dialogue."

M: "Why thank you! I fancy myself a writer don'chya know."

B: "Hey, maybe the mid-drift things a cake thing?"

M: "Or an, 'i'm a 14 year old hick, and shop at Claires' thing. It's tragic."

B: "Obliviously tragic."

M: "The worst kind of tragic... A sin."

B: "Yeah."

M: "Yeah." (Beat).
"Wanna cigarette?"


I wave it off; she knows i don't smoke. But she does when she drinks, so she lights that bitch and sucks it back. She is the epitome of cool and I love her. I make sure to take the moment and admire her, then I carry on with one last thought...

B: "Well, who am I to forgive? But I'll do it anyway - to my cake, to yours. They can't help it, they were born that way... Like we, were born like this."

M: "Holier than thou?"

B: "Your words sister, not mine..."


She holds up her cigarette as if to cheers. I hold up my highball. We clink and ash sprinkles down like paper snow.

She turns to me and says, "So we fucked without a rubber last night."

B: "Oh ya? ... What's that like?"


***

xoLola

Flies, a short story

[Author's Note: When I write creatively the voice in my head sounds like a Southern accent. Read the following passage with one if you can manage.]

Part I

It’s a Sunday and there’s a fly on my potato salad. And not one of those little ones either, but the egg-shaped ones with hairs as long as those in an old man’s nose. My uncle’s name is Beagle. He was named after an old Navy sloop that carried Charles Darwin on a historic journey around the Americas, and the world too. Charles Darwin was a scientist of sorts in case you didn’t know.The kind of science that isn't really real but pondered. There's a word for it, but I can't pin the tail on the donkey with this one.

The HMS Beagle seized operation in 1870. There she went, fifty years after her first launch to sea, she was stripped to the bone and sold for scrap. And like that big old sloop I wouldn’t be surprised if my dear Uncle Beagle sees the same darned fate.
I call him dear, but his friends call him bastard.

It was early June when my parents left for the Key Largo Florida. I was only six years old and it was the last I ever seen of them. My mama was beautiufl, had hair the color of sunflowers, roots the color of their seeds. My father was a bowler, ran with a team called the Yesterday Sandy's. They were headed down to the Keys for a big tournament. "A big one," they cheered as they patted my head and loaded their bags in that Ford pick-up they took from my Gran, almost the instant after my pop's daddy died. They even promised to bring me back authentic Floridian salt-water taffy, straight from the Zeno's factory! The stuff of dreams. Oh boy, I thought. Oh boy.

The funny part of it all - well there was a mountain of luggage stacked in the back of that truck - so high I was worried it'd block the rearview from reflecting the road behind. Worried for their safety, naturally. You should have seen it - their bedroom was nearly empty - drawers almost bare. Looked like a cyclone past through the house too. And yet as I listened to that Ford speed out of the driveway and onto the open road, I sit wondering why my father's lucky bowling ball sit at the bottom of their closet - with his initials engraved 'B' and 'J' all shiney on the front. And I sit wondering, didn't he believe in luck no more?

After a month of living with Gran and her barely saying a word, I started to realize I wasn't getting any Zeno's taffy anytime soon. And when the years started passing, I stopped dreaming of it all together.

My gran just turned 80 at the time, but she looked just about a hundred and twleve. For an old person she sure did smell good, like donut shop coffee and old fashioned glaze. I didn't have to move, 'cause we already lived in her house, off her dime and her cans of Campbells soup. "Mmm mmm good," she'd repeat over and over again. Without much talk or conversation, we established our own little routine, our own way of co-existing in a weird kind of peace. We got along her and I, and I guess it was because my ma and old man didn't just leave behind that special bowling ball, but they left her behind too.

Last Tuesday I was out in the yard and heard the "ding aling aling" of the Dickie Dee ice cream man and boy did I want a Rocket. I caught a glimpse of him - he was breakng on a sharp turn down Everly St. I ran so fast and yelled after him. I nearly tripped and chipped a tooth - surely worth the sacrfice .I caught up with him a moment later, wheezing and out and breath.

I licked that rocket so fast it was almost done by time I reached the front step of my house, my tonge purple from the red and blue fruit flavors, my chin sticky with tears of juices. If Gran saw my face, she wouldnt be pleased. I'd know it from that huff she always made anytime I was impolite or acting like what she called a "neandrathal." That always scared me straight 'cause that's what she called my daddy and I don't think she liked him very much. He never opened the door for her or picked up a quart or nothing. A neandrathal.

I stepped onto the porch and just as I reached for the screen door, there she was lying on the lineoleom kitchen floor, face planted into the ground, Campbells cream of mushroom splattered like an all-you-can-eat chalk outline. And it hit me, it seemed like everyone around me dropped like flies. Was I bug repellent? I wondered.

Sad as it was, that's how I ended up bunking with Uncle Beagle, the Zoologist. He was my only other living relative, but a relative I'd never met only overheard of in passing. Gran's house was repossessed, seems like she had no money, a beehive of credit, and a rather large outstanding dept. The authorities came to collect me and delivered me to the Park Street Zoo. And there he was Beagle James in a navy blue jumper, his name embroidered on his breast and a look of utter confusion on his fully bearded face. He looked like Jesus Christ I thought, the way he looks in the painting that hung above Gran's canopy.

No, Uncle Beagle the janitor (not a zoologist), wasn't expecting me at all. Even more, he wasn't expecting what would come of our life together...

***

xoLola

North Carolina

I love blaring ridiculously good new-age bluegrass while working on arts and crafts. A fine activity for a rainy Saturday afternoon. Surrounded by exposed brick and wood trim. Wearing my navy wellies - "Shining Time Station cool." My fingertips sticky with glue, my skin cut from paper - my heart overflowing with pure joy and my lips singing along to this sweet sweet music.

Fan. I am a fan. And by fan I mean when I honestly like a band... I LOVE them and I really don't care what people think even if they may not be cool enough for top 40, or pretentious enough for music snobs. I enjoy them because they make me enjoy myself. I think about them, I feel anxious to listen to them and when that moment comes where I discover they'll be drivin' their big tour bus down some big ol highway to my little town to bang their drums and scream their lungs dry... and all for me (at least that's what I dream true) I literally feel more alive with hyper fucking love and joy than I do on my birthday. It's the same kind of feeling I get when serendipitous poetry falls from my mind onto the page when I'm neck suffocating deep in a screenplay or story. Oh God.

Joy. Joy is hard to come by... but as of late... there is so much to be joyful about.

Birthdays. I'm going to Tattoo Rock Parlor tonight for the first time for my friend G's boyfriend's birthday. So I made him a card out of a Cheerios box and Now classifieds. That card in the pic, see? It's supposed to be Moby Dick. Remember how thrilling it was when it finally was Art period in elementary school? Fucking pine cones and egg cartons and pipe cleaner dreams. Getting high off the glue and talking about boys. That's how I felt last night while making that card. Bliss.

I've been thinking a lot about birthdays lately. About AM's in particular. And the fact that, come June, her and I will be experiencing one of my favourite bands live together in celebration of her twenty fourth year... well I can't think of anything more blissful.

We'll be there... in our denim fucking dressings, moccasins and beaded necklaces singing our fucking souls out. Sounds beautiful, right? It's because it is.

xo

Lola.

"You're not a girl, you're a car, you're a red Trans Ammmmmmmm"

What light there is slips through

My favourite Greek myths are the ones that involve a detour into the Underworld. I think those are the most emotionally accurate precursors to the modern coming-of-age story, because they tell us what we all already know but often forget : that fear cannot be conquered until it is looked in the eye and feared properly, and that growth does not include bypassing the tough stuff.

Having said that, suffering for suffering's sake brings us nowhere. The courage to face difficulty is a two-pronged cure that will take us out of it. If Psyche had walked into the Land of the Dead without knowing what she was facing, she'd still be down there, wailing with the rest of the souls. But she walked out and, in the deepest corners of my faith, I know I will too.

I am beginning to view my life as my own personal myth, with its own gods and demons and trials in the Underworld. I firmly believe that this is what life really is and that everyone, everywhere, is writing their own myths as they breathe. Like any anthology, some myths are more ambitious than others and some small acts of heroism can get lost in the shuffle, but there are no minor myths, no lesser heroes, just smaller or quieter ones. The only stories that don't finish are the ones that don't begin and to begin, you need to leave the familiar and accept the quest. So first let us accept, then let us begin.


Yours,

Inari Grindcore


This is my last post on Sexless. I'm not a fan of stagnancy, so change it, move it, shake it, rip it up...it's all good with me.

thick, thicker, thickest

I don't like it when you criticize other girls and you say things like, "uh, her body is nothing special at all." Well, if her body is nothing special, and in my opinion it's "better" than mine, then what the hell do you think of my body? And it's not that you're opinion on the matter should matter, but it does. It matters. Your eye represents the heterosexist, North American public. The public I just so happen to be a part of.

... I've had a thought. The world is enormous. That should mean something. And I know what it means about romance - about the world of possibility beyond our own fenced off GTA. It wouldn't make sense for all of our "ones" to be so close already?

But I hate to talk about romance in such close proximity to my self-analysis of my sometimes negative body image because it would suggest that the two are in some way related.

And to think I was actually feeling pretty positive until you said that thing about TY from high school. Fuck TY.

We may be blood, but that doesn't magically make you see me through rose colored glasses. Please see what everyone else sees and judge accordingly.

I'm also a little perturbed that the JOAN Barbie doll isn't an accurate representation of the actual character.

This was just a five minute spell of trouble. On all other fronts - it's sunshine, mild and clear skies... and it only gets better from here.

xoLo

Sell a couple bottles of Dr. Good

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOSZwEwl_1Q

Dear Anne,

I'm thinking of taking over the house blog as my own without officially telling anyone or its "co-owners". I'll keep all of its history and posts - not only mine but Inari's and Des' as well. I'd never EVER want to lose any of them. But...you see... it houses so many of my stories and thoughts that I feel abnormally close to it... as if I've already reinvented it as all my own. I love the URL but absolutely loathe the name. I really want to change it to something that speaks specifically to who I am... something that compares to the creative spunk of other such titles that I'm proud of from my own cognatic collection. I could probably come up with an inifinite amount a hell of a lot better than "Sexless." Even though I'm sure I annoyingly coined it to begin with - unknowing of it's existing exponent - parodic popularity.

What I'm really concerned with Anne is my desire just to take something that is not wholly mine without consulting anyone first. It's not that consulting with the others would be any sort of thorn in my side... I just don't feel like I have to. But maybe I do, or why else would I be sussing this out? I'm usually not a wimp like this. Meh... I think I was just looking for an excuse to quote Cher in a blog post... and applied it to the most relevant of passing thoughts I was having.

What do you think Anne? Think i'd be stealing?

Signed,

A Thief on a Thursday night.

Girl, I like your biznessss

There's a lace curtain over my bedroom window, more like a veil really - and it's the kind of goldish tan as if aged with time. The blinds part slightly and I see the fuzzy incandescents like urban stars against the morning sky. Sad grey eyes with that hint of orange treasure and sunshine pink. I'm ready to watch the sunrise essentially which should happen any moment. Well, is happening at the moment.

I usually right lengthy fabricated stories based loosely on the things that more than often outrage or conflict or haunt me time and time again. Usually long and rather columnish essays if you will. Lately, however, I've been reflecting on those subtle inspirations that I encounter daily... observations that I make that (for lack of a less bible-finatic sounding phrase) - that I'm "thankful for."

I could not have asked for more of a lovely evening last night with G. I like our time together. It's comfortable, cathartic. Her face and/or voice does not fucking annoy me. I genuinely enjoy her company and volunteer to be around her because she's the kind of human being I admire. This is completely self serving BUT I actually feel better when I'm around her - like I'm not digressing but "BETTERING MYSELF.'' I don't like not using my time to do that. Double negative I know but I must for dramatic affect in order to stress the importance of what said double negative implies.

K it's 6:17 am. Time to get my ass out of bed and ready for the salt mines.

xo Lola.

I've nicknamed it already - "white heat." That's good. That's really REALLY good.

Peter Krause, you're a fox.

There are these moments - few and far between - where I stumble upon a brand new show and it speaks directly to me, every part of me. My mind, my nostalgia, my heart and my hormones, the whole lot. It's the most satisfying and fulfilling feeling to discover a show that feels like it was made just for you. There's something special about tv, especially tv like this. You can count on it every week to be there. And just be there to make you happy, even if it does sometimes make you sad. Some of the best and most successful new television triggers memories. How can something new and unfamiliar and dramatized, essentially, trigger a memory? Something that's happened in the past? The same way I explain the transmission of television light and sound out of that awkward box we all stare at. It's not a result of electrical power or any sort of logistical science. I don't believe in science. I believe in ethereal power. Some godly force. Some meant to be, magical lucky charms kinda junk that drives it all and home.

It goes back to birth and Laura Ingalls. Or the black out power outage, and yet the Goonies was playing on tv. The Price is Right at Nanni's, or Cheers when scary Nonna babysat. Throwing tantrums during Young and the Restless. Learning what drugs were during 90210. "But he has a baby picture on his mantel, why is David Silver doing drugs?" Or hitting puberty during an episode of the Cosby show. Or doing my grade 5 speech on Friends... the list goes on and on and on...

TV may not "feed my family" but I want it to.

xoLo

7:14 am itunes binge and the grand ole oprey

Erase and sync.

That's like five years of adolescent music history gone.

Half a decade defined by illegally ripped tunes and innumerable compact discs (aka c.d's.)

A feeling only an emoticon can sufficiently express.

:/

I bit the bullet. Ripped the band aid. Held my breath and hit that ever foreboding delete.

Now starting from goddamn scratch.

...And I suppose that's what this entire year has felt like.

A rebirth from that mousy haired, sad little anorexic heart. Luckily that sad sack is no more.

Now I'm blonde, and bodacious... and obsessed with country music. (Ahem... real country music).

It's not a bad thing to love yourself. It's a very VERY good thing.

Think of what is absolutely rad about you... (about those you love!) And there... you love yourself.

Celebrate you.

xo

Lola.

Bonham, Jones, Page & Plant

I'm a broken record I know. But MAN do things ever happen for a reason.

I'm often on the cusp of committing down right stupid fucking things and it's as if some unearthly element, some stairway to heaven/whole lotta love kinda shit that's just way beyond bizarre - dives for home and saves me from myself. From what coulda been. Disastrous.

Well not disastrous. Just so incredibly fake. He's a flake!

Well what coulda been is not my fate. Please refrain and stay 10 ft away from me at all times. And whatever I said, I didn't mean. And whatever I do? I rather I don't.

Go back to sleep. Go back to never waking up. Go back to the throws of young degenerate folk singer love. And leave me out of it. I'm nobody's second.

...Or third.

"Just do what you want," he says. "Just do what feels right."

As if that's helping.

Yet still,

I concur,

And,

I'll go back to how it used to be.

I'll go back to waiting for when it's right.

Yup. That's my decision.

Afterall, the stars they say, "sometimes it is better to sit back and let fate take its course rather than try too hard. This is one of those times. Life will come to you. You don’t have to chase it."

Mr. Plant? Mr. Page? Will you play me out?

xoLola.

"There's a sign on the wall

But she wants to be sure
'Cause you know sometimes words have
Two meanings

In a tree by the brook
There's a songbird who sings
Sometimes all of our thoughts are
Misgiven

Ooh, it makes me wonder

Ooh, it makes me wonder..."

polytechnique

I've been watching a lot of contemporary Canadian film lately.

Wow, there's so much quality out there, I can't believe I only make the effort around Genie time.

Jacque Davidts' Polytechnique was beautiful. Again, quiet, subtle yet brimming with emotion the way tears flutter from your lids when you try so desperately to hold them back. To conceal them from whom ever's watching. From whom ever is near.

My God. I was shaken. I felt like I hadn't a clue about the Montreal Massacre. "Why are you not more informed?" I scolded myself and immediately tuned into an hour worth of CBC archival footage... which turns out was twice as traumatizing as the film. And the film was mighty powerful. Powerful in its minimalism.

Minimalism. Is. Beautiful.

As was Sebastien Huberdeau's J-F....

There's a moment at the end of the film in one of the survivor (Valérie's) final reveries. She's addressing the Killer's mother in a letter. She says he - that day - scarred her for life. And even though in her present state she appears content, productive, and in a loving relationship, she is still scarred. And even without this exposition, you know this about her.

It got me thinking. One, really can be scarred for life. Yeah, I suppose scars fade and some even argue they're physically able to disappear completely. But I'm actually highly skeptical of that claim. And although some are closer to the surface than others, and some deeper to the bone, they're there and they're never, ever going away.

goodnight,

Lo

next on my list: Victoria Day

Nurse. Fighter. Boy.

I don't trust people who are uncomfortable with silence.

For those who have a difficult time understanding that, just recognize (for the nine millionth time) that my mind is always elsewhere. Always thinking about other things. So if I seem distracted, I'm not, I'm really just focused on something I consider far more a matter at hand.

Nurse. Fighter. Boy.

Nurse. Fighter. Boy is such a lovely film. It could not have been a more perfect film choice for this evening to massage my solitary silence after a hard days work. And not just because it was inspiring (so simple, so quiet, yet so layered and emotional = every way I wish to write) but also because there's this scene between the mother and son that resonated so much it was as if it was pulled directly from my childhood.

If you get the opportunity to watch this film - please do. It's urban, contemporary - and if you dig classic "indie" with a small unflashy dose of Canadiana you're already sure to respect it without even having viewed it. But it's the lovely written, directed and acted relationships that really pulled my heartstrings in. That really made me believe in the film - however "formulaic"the critics accost it to be.

xo goodnight all,

Lola.

The Equalizer

12:45pm.
Maybe it was my midmorning snack of two black coffees and a diet coke, but I have this nervous pit in my stomach and a bad case of the jitters. As if I've done something. As if something's going to happen. Or maybe something already has.

I've been more paranoid than usual. It could be that I grew up middle class, and I am so not in that environment anymore... that is until I return to my four-room apartment on Bloor St... It's astounding how severe the hierarchal dichotomy is in the professional world. I often feel inadequate. I shouldn't though and I know that. But, to be honest, it's kind of nice to not be so self-assured for a change. It makes you work twice as hard, if not harder.

It also makes you always wonder what others are thinking and why.

My Dad says not to worry. He says to just be my honest self and everything will be more than fine. How does he say this with such unbound conviction, as if he's in tune with some deeper fate with God himself.

In any case, I've come to understand that even if we think we owe to others for the bulk of our achievements, we also in part owe it to ourselves to see that we at least play some role in getting to where we wish to be.

We just need to build it. And considering there's a massive green tarp right behind my cubicle blocking off a site of demolition - in order to then reconstruct a corner office that oozes years of learning, harwork and success... I know for a fact that "building" is a work in progress. So we gotta be in it for the long-haul. If you're in a nervous hurry? Then this life? It ain't for you.

Patience.
Axl Rose really does give great advice.

Lola.